Angel's Hive
by Tiruneko
Summary: One day, a story was told. It was a story told to keep children happy as they slept, not whimpering of the shadows that flicker in the dark, of the evil that dances in the air, whispering behind every cloud. But they got the story wrong. It wasn't the dark they should have been afraid of, but instead the heroes in the parent's tales, the divine.
1. Chance

_*Angel's Hive*_

_Chapter One _

One day, a story was told.

It was a small tale, really nothing of any significance. Just a small child's bed time story. It was a story told to keep children happy as they slept, not whimpering of the shadows that flicker in the dark, of the evil that dances in the air, whispering behind every cloud. But they got the story wrong.

It wasn't the dark they should have been afraid of, but instead the heroes in the parent's tales. Why, of course the darkness harbors its own dangers but sometimes the things hiding in plain sight are truly the most terrifying.

The divine. The concept of a heavenly, all powerful being watching over all of the evil. People, whether they know it or not, have always trusted in the winged goddesses.

Yet sometimes, trust can be easily misplaced.

*ll*

The clouds are dark and hang low over the land bellow, casting away all shadows, blanketing the world in their cold embrace. To most people, storm clouds are a sign of grim events, a foreboding message, but to others they make a comforting and cool atmosphere. After all, some people prefer to sulk in the shadows, even the ones cast by the sun.

A blonde haired boy blows a piece of hair out of his face, sighing and slinging his backpack tighter over his shoulder. He cracks his knuckles as he walks, bending his head up and inhaling the deep scent before rainfall. Song birds dance overhead, flying away before the rain comes to play. However, the boy much prefers canaries.

The crinkling of paper unfolding is loud against the quiet suburban streets as the boy takes a map out of his torn white shorts. He sighs with frustration. He's lost. Again.

He crumples the paper, tossing it to the ground below him. It rolls and falls into the street. Just more trash.

A fierce pain explodes behind his eyes, but he moves his hand slowly to cover his eyes. It brings a brief, fleeting moment of relaxation. The pain grows again once he removes his hand. A little dribble of liquid forms at the corner of his mouth and he moves his hand slowly upwards. He stops, looking at the cuts lining his palm, and the small, circular injuries. The white gauze that was once rolled over the injured hand is blood soaked and torn. Before moving his hand to his mouth where the bead of liquid slowly grows, he unrolls the last of the bandage and tosses it to his feet. It rolls into the street. Just more trash.

His callused fingers lightly touch his lips and he wipes away the liquid. He stares down at his hand and smeared blood stains his fingertips.

A raspy couch rises in his lungs and blood sprays out of the cracks in his pale lips. His hands fly to his mouth, his backpack dropping to the sidewalk bellow him. After the coughing fit subsides the boy reaches for the bag, wiping his bloody hands clean on his tattered white pants. He keeps walking out of the neighborhood and to a more desolate area of the town… or city… or whatever it is.

The boy touches his left eye, his now damp, red fingers dancing over the soft gauze. The pain is dull and bearable.

"I guess… life is like this now."

He looks upwards, towards the rolling storm clouds moving to blanket the sky with its swarming blue depths filled with white cotton and the heavens that watch down from above. That's when he sees it, a brilliant pink light, piercing through the clouds. It was there just for a moment, a small dancing light on the edge of the swelling and grim oblivion. But the eye patched boy saw it. He doesn't mistake anything his eye sees. Ever.

A small dust cloud rises up just underneath where the pink light was blinking. Without knowing why, the boy rushes forward, above the towering hill before him, and just past the bus stop he was trying to make it too. Just beyond there, just beyond the clouds is the glowing pink light, lying in dust.

The boy jogs forward, dropping his bag on the ground just outside of a small crater made by a heavy impact from somewhere. The boy moves to the edge of the shallow crater but stops just a little short, noticing a white feather with a hint of red.

He bends, slowly, picking it up. It's delicate, soft, and smooth. His fingers graze the red spot and liquid remains clinging to his fingertips. It isn't part of the feather's natural tint, but a separate liquid. Thick.

"Blood."

Concern rises slowly, quietly in the eye-patched boy's throat, and he moves forward, until he's teetering on the edge of the crater, peering into it. It's filled with blood, a pool, ankle deep, and floating inside is a face shrouded with delicate light pink strands of hair. More facial features become clearer until the face is fully visible in the crimson lake. The boy blinks for a long moment and when he reopens his eye he sees long white feathers, dancing around each other, forming a perfect blanket, soaked through with thick, dripping blood. Wings.

He walks slowly down into the pool, the blood rising up to his ankles and he moves his hands around the feathers. They're real, insanely real, not just plastic feathers you can buy at any store, but real, actually real wings, plucked straight from a bird. They're gentleness is intoxicating but they smell metallic like the blood they're enveloped in.

But for some reason the boy isn't afraid.

The girl's eyes slowly open, their sky blue depths swimming as if they contain the heavens concealed by the storm clouds.

"Die."

And her eyes flash a sharp pink and the sky around the two ignites into a blazing fire.


	2. Debt

**Ah! New story! Sorry it took me a long time to add the second chapter, and it took me even longer to pick and edit a different (much cooler ^.^) cover. I know it's a little confusing right now, and this part is a little short, but just bare with me! It'll make sense soon, hopefully!  
**

**Thanks to reviewers:**

**`japaneserockergirl **

**`frenchfrieswithtoast**

**Please enjoy! **

_**~Tiruneko ;3**_

* * *

_*Angels Hive*_

_Chapter Two_

The boy sits on his knees in a room of an old abandoned warehouse, muttering to himself. His fingers tap the side of an old and dusty desk as he trails off in thought to nowhere in particular. His hair falls like light string over his eye and he brushes it away, annoyed. The rhythm he taps against the table becomes methodic, planned out, focused. It turns into a drumbeat, then, it seems to take form into its own song with a chorus, just from one finger. He removes it and sighs. A large dent has formed in the side of the metal desk. The boy turns away, muttering.

Before him, lying on his dark blue sleeping bag, is the girl that fell out of the sky. Her hair falls the same way her wings fold up. It seems as if a light pink fluid is cascading down her front and over her shoulders. The girl is wearing a black dress, tattered from the fall. Wrapped around her waist is a red band with real thorns threaded through the stitching. She has very thin, red tights but no shoes. Around her calf was a garter with three sheathes, each holding an elaborate, not to mention very sharp, dagger. The boy was quick to remove those.

The boy stands, moving to the other side of the desk where he has started a tiny fire. Suspended over the fire by rope connected to the light fixture above, is a bucket. Inside of the bucket is a small cup of water that has just started to boil. The boy climbs up on the desk's old and disgusting chair covered in mouse droppings, and pulls on the rope. The knot at the top comes undone instantly.

He sets the bucket down and very carefully removes the cup inside. Reaching into his backpack he pulls out a small packet of dried noodles and seasoning. He pours both in and stirs it with a stick he tugged out of his fire. Slowly he lifts the liquid to his lips and drags in a large gulp of spicy noodles and hot water.

"Mmm…" The boy turns to look at the girl. She has slowly rolled over and is now sitting up, blinking her eyes wearily. "Where… am I?" Her voice is child-like and milky. When the girl moves, every part of her moves. She doesn't just turn her head, but her whole body moves with it in one fluid motion. Her beauty is stunning.

The boy puts his hands up as her eyes fall upon his. Her child-like voice snaps and curls into a harsh and brittle tone. She reaches for her dagger and gasps with surprise. She stands, unfurling her incredibly long wings. The tip of each white and red dotted wing grazes each side of the room gently. Her movements scream with kindness and beauty, but her eyes seethe with a thick and violent rage.

"It's okay! I-I found you and- b-brought you here! You're h-hurt!" The boy stutters, pointing at the girl's right arm. Coiled around it is a snake-like injury, a burn etched into her paper fragile and baby smooth skin. The wound itself has its own texture. On its surface dances a pattern, almost like the veins flow on a leaf, or the crevices overlap on a conch shell.

The girl's eyes widen with horror, then terror, and as she turns back to the boy, rage.

"Where am I?" Her voice is thick with malice, dripping with intent.

"In an o-old w-warehouse." The girl stalks forward with intense grace yet with an expression of warning. The boy backs into the desk as far as he can, even pushing it against the wall, flat.

"You have marooned me, boy."

"W-what?"

"You have marooned me." The girl repeats. "Your life is illegal thus you have marooned me."

"What are you talking about?" The boy asks, genuinely worried.

"I am an-", she stops herself and steps backwards. "No, no I am not. I have been decommissioned. I should be terminated. I should not be marooned. You have saved me, boy." The girl paces back to the corner of the room and sits on the floor, her legs folded beneath her. She presses her head to the floor in a respectful bow. "I am bowing to mere human blood. Such shame, such disgrace, such sadness to my name. No matter, I am marooned."

"Wait, did you say I marooned you, then say I saved you?" The boy relaxes, just a little bit.

"Yes, boy."

"I have a name." He says, irritated, sitting on the floor where he is.

"As do I, boy."

"Then why didn't you ask for my name and start calling me that?"

"Your people hold names highly, no?" The girl leans forward, wings folding up like a bird and resting down her back.

"Sure…?" The boy asks. "Look, I can give you money for a bus or… whatever if you want."

"Bus…?" She looks confused. "I don't know what you mean, boy."

"I said stop calling me 'boy', girl. It's Oliver." He says, leaning forward a little.

"Yes, you are the one."

"The one?"

"My target." Immediately Oliver jumps nearly a foot in the air, pushing himself flat against the wall and glaring the girl down with fire in his eye.

"How did you find me?" He hisses through clenched teeth.

"I was given your exact location. I failed to retrieve your life. I was marooned." The girl explains very plainly, with no emotion at all.

"If you're marooned why are you here? There isn't a prize for you anymore if they… got rid of you."

"Prize, Oliver? I do not know what you mean." She turns her head slightly sideways, eyes testing him.

"You know what I'm talking about! You're payment for killing me." The girl looks at him blankly.

"I do not kill, Oliver. I harvest. I am what you people call 'Death' but personified as 'Angel'."

"You're telling me you're an _angel?_" Oliver scoffs.

"Yes, Oliver. You see, I was sent to come harvest your soul after your death. But I could not. Your soul is trapped. I was punished for failure and marooned here, on this Earth. You found me again, Oliver. This I was not expecting. I believed that once I had failed I would be killed, but no, I was marooned. They cannot kill me, you see, because your soul is assigned to me and your soul is in peril. Normally under circumstances like this you would be given to another and I would return back, leaving you behind. But no, I was already on… how do you call it… 'Probation'? They cannot kill me or give you away, hence, I was marooned. And you found me, Oliver."

"You're an angel… sent to take my soul… but it's stuck, so you got… fired? And I just happened to find you…" She nods. Oliver sighs deeply. "Okay." He stands, walking over to his backpack and packing his things up.

"You accept this as the truth? I thought humans were stubborn creatures. You're supposed to be glued in your beliefs, yes?"

"I have no beliefs. And yes, I accept what you're saying. There isn't much else to really say, you have _wings, _and you fell out of the _sky _and tried to light me on _fire _with your _mind. _So, yeah, I'm pretty open to things like this. Honestly, if I saved your life, you owe me."

"Owe you? As in debt?" The angel stands, hovering behind him and looking over his shoulder into his bag.

"Yes. You said I saved your life." He turns to face her. "You owe me."


End file.
